There had been a sky dark with onrushing clouds. He had been alone with some scattered rocks, old bones and feathers at his feet and had looked round saying “Sandy?” but there was nobody else on the moor and the light was fading from two or three sunset streaks in the clouds to the west. He had run across the heather screaming Alexander’s name and tripped and fallen into darkness. He had wrestled a while with something entangling, then realized it was a downy quilt, flung it aside and sat up.
He was in bed in a darkened room with a headache and a feeling of terrible loss. He was sure he had come here with people who had been kind to him, but who were they? Where had they gone? His hand found and flicked the switch of a bedlight. The room was a dormitory with a pair of beds to each wall and dressing tables between them loaded with female cosmetics. The walls had coloured posters of male singers on them and notices saying things like JUST BECAUSE YOU’RE PARANOID DON’T THINK THEY AREN’T PLOTTING AGAINST YOU. His clothes were scattered about the floor. He groaned, rubbed his head, got up and quickly dressed. He felt that something very good had happened recently. It may not have been love, but it had left him ready for love. Delight had opened him, prepared him for someone who wasn’t there. He was anguished by the absence of someone to hold and whisper to affectionately, someone to hold him and speak lovingly back. He left the room and hurried along a dark corridor toward a sound of music and voices behind a door. He pushed the door open and stood blinking in the light. The voices stopped then someone shouted, “Look out! Here he comes again!” and a huge explosion of laughter went up.
The gallery was emptier than he remembered. Most people lay on cushions on the lowest floor and he hurried through them looking left and right. He remembered meeting a thin-lipped smiling little mouth in a glade of dark hair and cried to a laughing mouth among dark hair, “Is it you? Were you with me?”
“When?”
“In the bedroom?”
“Oh, no, not me! Wasn’t it Helga? The woman dancing up there?”
He rushed onto the dance floor, crying, “Are you Helga? Were you with me in the bedroom?”
“Sir,” said Timon Kodac, who was dancing with her, “this lady is my wife.”
Laughter came from every side though nobody else was dancing and the only player was a saxophonist. The rest of the orchestra sat with girls on cushions round the floor and he suddenly saw Libby very clearly. She leaned against the drummer, a middle-aged man with horn-rimmed glasses. Her gracefully plump young body yearned toward him, little ripples flowed up it, thrusting her shoulder into his armpit, a breast against his side. Lanark hurried over and said, “Libby, please, was it—was it you, please?”
“Nyuck!” she said with a disgusted grimace. “Certainly not!”
“It’s all sliding away from me,” wept Lanark, covering his eyes.
“Sliding into the past, further and further. It was lovely, and now it has turned to jeering.”
A hand seized his arm and a voice said, “Take a grip of yourself.”
“Don’t let go,” said Lanark opening his eyes. He saw a small, lean, young-looking man with crew-cut hair, black sweater, slacks and sandshoes.
The man said, “You’re being bloody embarrassing. I know what you need. Come with me.”
Lanark let himself be led up to the top floor, which was completely empty. He said, “Who are you?”
“Think a bit.”
The voice sounded familiar. Lanark peered closely and saw deep little creases at the corners of the eyes and mouth which showed that this smooth, pale, ironical face belonged to quite an old man.
He said, “You can’t be Gloopy.”
“Why not?”
“Gloopy, you’ve changed. You’ve improved.”
“Can’t say the same for you.”
“Gloopy, I’m lonely. Lost and lonely.”
“I’ll help you out. Sit there.”
Lanark sat at a table. Gloopy went to the nearest bar and returned with a tall glass. He said, “There you are. A rainbow.” Lanark gulped it and said, “I thought you were operating as a lift, Gloopy.”
“Doesn’t do to stay too long at the same thing. What is it you want? Sex, is it?”
“No, no, not just sex, something more gentle and ordinary.” Gloopy frowned and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He said, “You’ll have to spell it out more definite than that. Think carefully. Male or female? How old? What posture?”
“I want a woman who knew and liked me a long time ago and still likes me. I want her to take me in her arms easily, casually, as if it was a simple thing to do. She’ll find me cold and unresponsive at first, I’ve lived too long alone, you see, but she mustn’t be put off by that. We’ll sleep together calmly all night, and then I’ll lose my fear of her and toward morning I’ll wake with an erection and she’ll caress me and we’ll make love without worry or fuss. And spend all day in bed, eating, reading and cuddling happily, making love if we feel like it and not bothered by each other.”
“I see. You want a mother figure.”
“No!” yelled Lanark. “I don’t want a mother figure, or a sister figure, or a wife figure, I want a woman, an attractive woman who likes me more than any other man in the world yet doesn’t pester me!”
“I can probably fix you up with something like that,” said Gloopy. “So stop shouting. I’ll give you one more drink, and then we visit your rooms in Olympia. All types of attractive bints in Olympia.”
“My rooms? Olympia?”
“Olympia is the delegates’ repose village. Didn’t they tell you?”
“Are you a pimp, Gloopy?” said Lanark, gulping another white rainbow.
“Yeah. One of the best in the business. There’s a great need for us in times like these.”
“Times like what, Gloopy?”
“Don’t you read the glossies? Don’t you watch the talk shows?
Ours is an era of crumbling social values. This is the age of alienation and non-communication. The old morals and manners are passing away and the new lot haven’t come in yet. Result is, men and women can’t talk about what they want from each other. In an old-fashioned flower culture like Tahiti a girl would wear a pink hibiscus blossom behind her left ear, which meant, I got a good boyfriend but I’d like to have two. So the boys understood her, see? The European aristocracy used to have a very sophisticated sex language using fans, snuffboxes and monocles. But nowdays people are so desperate for lack of a language that they’ve taken to advertising in newspapers. You know the kind of thing! Forty-three-year-old wealthy but balding accountant whose hobby is astronomy would like to meet one-legged attractive not necessarily intelligent girl who wouldn ‘t mind spanking him with a view to forming a lifelong attachment. That’s just not good enough. Too much room for accident. What society needs is me, a sensitive trustworthy middleman with wide connections and access to a good Tunc-Quidative-Cortexin-Cluster-Computer.’’
“Smattera fact, Gloop,” said Lanark shyly, “sometimes I am a … a … a …”
“Yeah?”
“a … a … an imaginary sadist.”
“Yeah?”
“Not a damaging sadist. Namaginary one. So from standpoint of occasional perverse frolic it would help matters if lady nquestion, along with the other points numerated, which are the ’sential points, make no mistake about that, these other points I numerated are the ’sential ones … where was?”
“Perverse frolic.”
“Good. I’d like her not to be namaginary masochist, because I want to give her imaginary pain, not imaginary pleasure.”
“Yeah. Defeat whole purpose.”
“So I require namaginary weaker sadist than myself.”
“Yeah, difficult, but I might just manage to swing it. Come on, then.”
Gloopy steered him through the dozen Quantum-Cortexin security men who remained outside the gallery and opened a door beside the doors of the lifts. They walked down a paved path between lawns and trees with Chinese lanterns in them. Lanark said, “I thought we were very high up, Gloop.”
“Only on the inside. The stadium is built in an old dock basin, you see. The river’s down here, Narky boy.”
They passed a wharf where small pleasure boats were gently rocking and came to a smooth sheet of water with lamps along the far shore. Lanark stopped and pointed dramatically to the long reflections of the lights in the dark water.
“Gloop!” he cried. “Poem. Listen. ’Magine these lights stars, right? Here goes. Twilit lake, sleek as clean steel—”
“This is a river and it’s nearly dawn, Narky boy.”
“Doninerrupt. You’re not a cricit, Gloop, you’re a chamberlain, like Munro. Know Munro, no? Nindividual who delivers folk from one chamber to nother. Listen. Twilit lake, sleek as clean steel, each star a shining spear in your deep. Pottery. I have been twitted, in my time, with solidity, Gloop. Dull solid man of few words, me. But pottery is lukring in these dethps, Gloop!” said Lanark, thumping his chest. He thumped too hard and started coughing.
“Lean on me, Nark,” said Gloopy.
Lanark leaned on him and they came to a footbridge which crossed the water in one slender white span to a shining arrangement of glass cubes and lantern-hung trees on the other shore. “Olympia,” said Gloopy.
“Nice,” said Lanark. In the middle of the bridge he stopped again saying, “No fireworks now, so we have waterworks, yes? It’s urgent that I piss.”
He did so between two railings and was disappointed to see his urine jet two feet forward and then fall straight down.
“When I was a small-bellied boy!” he cried, “tumbling ninepin over the dolly mixture daisies, my piss had an arc of thirteen feet. A greybeard now, belly flabby from abuse of drink, I cannot squirt past my reflection. Piss. A word which sounds like what it means. A rare word.”
“Police,” muttered Gloopy.
“No, Gloop, you are wrong. Police does not sound like what it means. It is too like polite, please and nice.”
Gloopy was running down the slope of the bridge toward the village. When he reached the shore he turned his head for a moment and yelled, “All right, officers! Just a perverse frolic!” Lanark saw two policemen advancing toward him. He zipped up his trousers and hurried after Gloopy. As he reached the shore two men stepped onto the bridge and stood blocking the way. They wore black suits. One held out a hand and said in a dull voice, “Pass please.”
“I can’t, you’re blocking the way.”
“Show your pass, please.”
“I don’t have one. Or if I do it’s in my briefcase—I’ve left that somewhere. Do I need a pass? I’m a delegate, I have rooms here, please let me through.”
“Identify self.”
“Provost Lanark of Greater Unthank.”
“There is no Provost Lanark of Greater Unthank.” Lanark noticed that the man’s eyes and mouth were shut and the voice came from a neatly folded white handkerchief in his breast pocket. His companion was staring at Lanark with eyes and mouth wide open. A metal ring with a black centre poked out between his teeth. With great relief Lanark heard the voice of an ordinary human policeman behind him: “Just what’s happening here?”
“There is no Provost Lanark of Greater Unthank,” said the security man again.
“There is!” said Lanark querulously, “I know the programme says the Unthank delegate is Sludden but it’s wrong, there was an unexpected last-minute change, I am the delegate!”
“Identify self.”
“How can I without my briefcase? Where’s Gloopy? He’ll vouch for me, he’s a very important pimp, you’ve just let him through. Or Wilkins, send for Wilkins. Or Monboddo! Yes, contact the bloody Lord Monboddo, he knows me better than anyone.”
In his own ears the words seemed shrill and unconvincing. The voice from the security man’s pocket sounded like a record slowing to a stop: “Proof-burden property of putative prover.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means, Jimmy, that you’d better come quietly with us,” said a policeman, and Lanark felt a hand grip each shoulder.
He said feebly, “My name is Lanark.”
“Don’t let it worry you, Jimmy.”
The security men stepped back. The policemen pushed Lanark forward, then sideways and down to a landing stage. Lanark said, “Aren’t you taking me to the repose village?”
They pushed him onto the deck of a motor launch, then down into a cabin. He said, “What about Nastler? He’s your king, isn’t he? He knows me.”
They pushed him down on a bench and sat on a bench opposite. He felt the launch move out into the river and was suddenly so tired that he had to concentrate to keep from falling down.
Later he saw the planks of another landing stage, and a pavement which continued for a long time, then a few stone steps, a doormat and some square rubber tiles fitted edge to edge. He was allowed to lean on a flat surface. A voice said,
“Name?”
“Lanark.”
“Christian or surname?”
“Both.”
“Are you telling me your name is Lanark Lanark?”
“If you like. I mean yes yes yes yes yes.”
“Age?”
“Ndtermate. I mean indeterminate. Past halfway.”
Someone sighed and said “Address?”
“Nthank cathedral. No,’ Lympia. Olympia.”
There was some muttering. He noticed the words “bridge” and “security” and “six fifty.” That jerked him awake. He stared across a counter at a police sergeant with a grey moustache who was writing in a ledger. He saw a room full of desks where two policewomen were typing and the number 6.94 very big and black was framed upon the wall. With a click it charged to 6.95. He realized that a decimal clock had a hundred minutes an hour and licked his lips and tried to talk quickly and clearly.
“Sergeant, this is urgent! An important phone call is probably going through just now to my rooms in the delegates’ repose village; can it be diverted here? It’s from Wilkins, Monboddo’s secretary. I’ve been drunk and foolish, I’m sorry, but there may be a public disaster if I can’t speak to Wilkins!”
The sergeant stared at him hard. Lanark had flung out his hands appealingly and now saw they were filthy. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, his suit crumpled. There was a bad smell in the room and he noticed, with a shudder, that it came from a brown crusted stain on his trouser leg. He said, “I know I look detestable but politicians can’t always be wise! Please! I’m not asking for myself but for the people I represent. Put me on to Wilkins!”
The sergeant sighed. He took an assembly programme from under the counter and studied a back page printed in small type. He said, “Is Wilkins a surname or a Christian name?” “Surname, I think. Does it matter?”
The sergeant pushed the programme over the counter saying, “Which?”
A list of names headed COUNCIL STAFF filled ten pages. In the first four Lanark found Wilkins Staple-Stewart, the Acting Secretary for Internal-External Liaison, Peleus Wilkins, Procurator Designate for Surroundings and Places, and Wendel Q.
Wilkins, Senior Adviser on Population Energy Transfer.
“Listen!” said Lanark. “I’ll phone every Wilkins in the list till I get the—no! No, I’ll phone Monboddo and get the full name from him; he knows me even if his damned robots don’t. I’m sorry the hour is so early, but …”
He hesitated, for his voice sounded unconvincing again and the sergeant was slowly shaking his head. “Let me prove who I am!” said Lanark wildly. “My briefcase is in Nastler’s room in the stadium—no, I gave it to Joy, a Red Girl, a hostess in the executive gallery; she put it behind the bar for me I must get it back it contains a vitally important document please this is vital—”
The sergeant, who was writing in the ledger, said “All right, lads.”
Lanark felt a hand clapped on each shoulder and cried, “But what am I charged with? I’ve hurt nobody, molested nobody, insulted nobody. What am I charged with?”
“With being a pisser,” said a policeman holding him.
“All men are pissers!”
“I am charging you,” said the sergeant, writing, “under the General Powers (Consolidation) Order, and what you need is a nice long rest.”
And as he was led away Lanark found himself yawning hugely. The hands on his shoulder grew strangly comforting. Surely he had often been pushed forward by strong people who thought he was wicked? The feeling was less dreamlike than childlike.
He was led into a small narrow room with what looked like bunks piled with folded blankets along one wall. He climbed at once to the top bunk and lay down, but they laughed and said, “No, no, Jimmy!”
He climbed down and they gave him two blankets to carry and led him to another door. He went through and it was slammed and locked behind him. He wrapped the blankets round him, lay on a platform in a corner and slept.
And now he was awake and wildly miserable. He sprang up and walked in a circle round the floor, crying, “Oh! I have been wicked, stupid, evil, stupid, daft daft daft daft and stupid, stupid! And it happened exactly when I thought myself a fine great special splendid man! How did it happen? I meant to find Wilkins and talk to him sensibly, but the women made me feel famous. Did they want to destroy me? No, no, they treated me like something special because it made them feel special but all the time nothing good was being made, nothing useful was done. I was drunk, yes, with white rainbows, yes, but mostly with vanity; nobody is as crazy as a man who thinks he is important. People tried to tell me things and I ignored them. What was Kodac hinting at? Valuable minerals, special reports, government ignorance, it sounded like dirty trickery but I should have listened carefully. And … Catalyst … why didn’t I ask her name? She tried to warn me and I thought she wanted to sleep with me. Yah! Greed and idiocy. I forgot the reports! I lost the reports without even reading them, I was seduced by people I can’t even remember (but it was lovely). And how did I come to be paddling in that burn with Sandy? What was that but a useless bit of happiness put in to make my fall more dreadful? (But it was wonderful.) Oh, Sandy, what kind of father have you been cursed with? I left you to defend you and have turned into a ludicrous lecherous discredited stinking goat!”
He stopped and stared at some things he had not noticed beside the platform: three plastic mugs of cold tea and three paper plates of rolls with cold fried sausages in them. He grabbed the rolls and with tears trickling down his cheeks gulped and swallowed between sentences, saying, “Three mugs, three plates, three meals: I’ve been a whole day in here, the first day of the assembly is over…. When will I be let out?… I was fooled by false love because I never knew the true kind, not even with Rima. Why? I was faithful to her not because I loved her but because I wanted love, it is right that she left me it is right that I’m locked up here, I deserve much worse. … But who will speak for Unthank? … Who will cry out against that second-hand second-rate creator who thinks a cheap stupid disaster is the best ending for mankind? O, heavens, heavens fall and crush me! ….”
He noticed that self-denunciation was becoming a pleasure and sprang up and beat his head hard against the door; then stopped because it hurt too much. Then he noticed someone else was shouting and banging too. The door had a slit like a small letterbox at eye level. He looked through and saw another door with a slit immediately opposite. A voice from there said,
“Have you a cigarette Jimmy?”
“I don’t smoke. Do you know the time?”
“It was two in the morning when they brought me in and that was a while ago. What did they get you for?”
“I pissed off a bridge.”
“The police,” said the voice bitterly, “are a shower of bastards. Are you sure you don’t have a cigarette?”
“No, I don’t smoke. What did they get you for?”
“I hammered a man up a close and called the police a shower of bastards. Listen, they can’t treat us like this. Let’s batter our doors and yell till they give us some fags.”
“But I don’t smoke,” said Lanark, turning away.
His main feeling now was of physical filth. The lavatory pan suddenly flushed and he examined it. The water looked and smelled pure. He undressed, wet a corner of a blanket and scrubbed himself hard all over. He draped a dry blanket round him like a toga, rinsed his underclothes several times in the pan and hung them on the rim to dry. He scraped with his nails the crust of vomit from the trouser leg and rubbed the place with the wettened blanket. The creased cloth offended him. Though thirsty he had only been able to empty one mug of cold tea. He spread the trousers on the platform and rubbed them steadily in small circles with the mug base, pressing down hard. He did this a long time without seeing an improvement, but whenever he stopped there was nothing else to do. The door opened and a policeman entered with a mug and a plate of rolls. He said, “What are you doing?”
“Pressing my trousers.”
The man collected the other mugs and plates. Lanark said, “When will I get out, please?”
“That’s up to the magistrate.”
“When will I see the magistrate?”
The policeman went outside, slamming the door. Lanark ate, drank the hot tea and thought, ‘The assembly has begun the work of the second day.’ He began pressing again. Whenever he stopped he felt so evil and useless, evil and trivial that he bit his hands till the pain was an excuse for screaming, though he did it quietly and undramatically. Another policeman brought lunch and Lanark said, “When will I see the magistrate?”
“The court sits tomorrow morning.”
“Could you take my underclothes please and hang them somewhere to dry?”
The policeman went out, laughing heartily. Lanark ate, drank, then walked in a circle, flapping the underpants in one hand, the vest in the other. He thought, ‘I suppose the assembly is discussing world order just now.’ A feeling of hatred grew in him, hatred of the assembly, the police and everyone who wasn’t in the cell with him. He decided that when he was released he would immediately piss on the police station steps, or smash a window, or set fire to a car. He bit his hands some more, then worked at pressing trousers and drying underclothes till long after the evening tea and rolls. He felt too restless to lie down, and when the underwear was only slightly damp he dressed, polished his shoes with the blanket and sat waiting for breakfast and the magistrates ‘court. He thought drearily, ‘Perhaps I’ll be in time for the pollution debate.’
And then he wakened with a headache, feeling filthy again. Three mugs of cold tea, three plates of rolls lay beside the platform. He thought, ‘My life is moving in circles. Will I always come back to this point?’ He didn’t feel wicked any more, only trivial and useless. Another policeman opened the door and said, “Outside. Come on. Outside.”
Lanark said feebly, “I would like to stay here a little longer.” “Outside, come on. This isn’t a hotel we’re running.”
He was led to the office. A different sergeant stood behind the counter and an old lady wearing jeans and a fur coat stood in front. Her face was sharp and unpleasant; her thin hair, dyed blond, was pulled into an untidy bun on top of her head and the scalp showed between the strands. She said, “Hullo, Lanark.”
The sergeant said, “You have this lady to thank for bailing you out.”
She said, “Why didn’t he appear in the magistrates court this morning?”
“Pressure of business.”
“The court didn’t look busy to me. Come on Lanark.”
Her voice was harsh and grating. He followed her to the station steps and was slightly blinded by the honey-coloured light of an evening sun sparkling on the river beyond a busy roadway. He stopped and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are.” She pulled off a fur gauntlet and with a queer, vulnerable gesture held out her hand, palm upward. One of the lines across it was deep, like a scar.
He said “Gay!” with immense regret, for though she had been ill when he last saw her she had also been attractive and young. He gazed into her lean old face, shaking his head, and her expression showed she had the same feeling about himself. She pulled on the glove and slipped her arm round his, saying quietly, “Come on, old man. We can do something better than stand round regretting our age. My car is over there.”
As they went toward it she said with sudden violence, “The whole business stinks! Everyone knew you disappeared two days ago; there were plenty of rumours but nothing was done. Twice daily I phoned every police station in the Provan region and they pretended they hadn’t heard of you till an hour ago; then the marine police station admitted they had a prisoner who might be you. An hour ago! After the subcommittee reports had been read and voted on and all the smiling statements made to the press. Did you know I was a journalist? I write for one of those venomous little newspapers that decent people think should be banned: the sort that print nasty stories about rich, famous, highly respected citizens.”
She opened the car door. He sat beside her and she drove off. He said, “Where are we going?”
“To the banquet. We’ll be in time for the speeches at the end.”
“I don’t want to go to a banquet. I don’t want the other delegates or anybody to see me or be reminded of me ever again.”
“You’re demoralized. It’ll wear off. My daughter is a stupid, gelid little nung. If she’d looked after you none of this would have happened. Have you guessed who caused all this?”
“I blame nobody but myself.”
She laughed almost merrily and said, “That’s a splendid excuse for letting bastards walk all over you…. Do you really not know who pushed you into that trap?”
“Gloopy?”
“Sludden.”
He looked at her. She frowned and said, “Perhaps Monboddo is in it too, but no, I don’t think so. The big chief prefers not to know certain details. Wilkins and Weems are more likely, but if so Sludden has been too smart for them. Instead of neatly carving up Greater Unthank for the council my bloody ex-husband has handed it over to Cortexin lock, stock and ballocks.”
“Sludden?”
“Sludden, Gow and all the other merry men. Except Grant. Grant objected. Grant may manage to start something.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Lanark drearily. “Sludden sent me here to argue against Unthank’s being destroyed. Will it be destroyed?”
“Yes, but not in the way they first planned. The council and creature-clusters meant to use it as a cheap supply of human energy, but they won’t do that now till they’ve sucked out these lovely rich juices discovered by your friend Mrs. Schtzngrm.”
“What of the pollution?”
“Cortexin will handle that. For the moment, at any rate.”
“So Unthank is safe?”
“Of course not. Bits of it have become valuable property again, but only to a few people and for a short time. Sludden has sold your resources to an organization with worldwide power run by a clique for the benefit of a clique. That isn’t safety. Why do you think were you sent here as a delegate?”
“Sludden said I was the best man available.”
“Ha! Politically speaking you don’t know your arse from your elbow. You don’t even know what the word ‘lobbying’ means. You were fucking well certain to pox up everything, that’s why Sludden made you delegate. And while people here got excited about you, and plotted against you, and passed big resolutions about world order and energy and pollution, Sludden and Cortexin were doing with Unthank exactly what they wanted. You aren’t very intelligent, Lanark.”
“I have begun to notice that recently,” said Lanark, after a pause.
“I’m sorry old man, it isn’t your fault. Anyway, I’m trying to make you angry.”
“Why?”
“I want you to raise hell at this banquet.”
“Why? I won’t do it, but why?”
“Because this has been the smoothest, politest, most docile assembly in history. The delegates have handled each other as gently as unexploded bombs. All the dirty deals and greedy devices have been worked out in secret committees with nobody watching, nobody complaining, nobody reporting. We need somebody, just once, to embarrass these bastards with a bit of the truth.”
“Sludden told me to do that.”
“His reasons are not my reasons.”
“Yes. He was a politician, you are a journalist, and I like neither of you. I like nobody except my son, and I’m afraid I’ll never see him again. So I care for nothing.”
The car was passing down a quiet street. Gay parked it suddenly by a vast brick wall and folded her arms on the wheel.
She said quietly, “This is terrible. In the days of the old Elite you were a definite, independent sort of man in your limited way. I was slightly afraid of you. I envied you. I was a silly weakling then, the mouthpiece of someone who despised me. And now that I’ve lost my looks and gained some sense and self-confidence you’ve gone as feeble as putty. Did Rima chew your balls off?”
“Please don’t talk like that.”
Gay sighed and said, “Where will we go?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re my passenger. Where do you want me to drive you?”
“Nowhere.”
“All right,” she said, reaching into the back seat. “Here’s your briefcase. My daughter found it somewhere. It was empty, apart from a scientific dictionary and this pass with your name on it.” She stuck a long strip of plastic into his breast pocket.
“Get out.”
He got out and stood on the kerb, trying to find comfort in the familiar smoothness of the briefcase handle. He expected the car to drive away but Gay got out too. She took his arm and led him to a double door, the only feature in a wilderness of wall. He said, “What place is this?” but she hummed softly to herself and touched a bell button. Each wing of the door suddenly swung inward and Lanark was appalled by the sight of two tight-mouthed security men. They spoke sharply and simultaneously, the voices springing from their shirtfronts:
“Pass, please.”
“You can see it in his pocket,” said Gay.
“Identify self.”
“He’s the Unthank delegate, slightly late, and I’m from the press.”
“Delegate may enter. No press may enter without the red card. No press may enter without the red card. Delegate may enter.”
They moved apart, leaving a narrow space between them. Gay said, “Well, goodbye, Lanark. I’m sorry I won’t be able to twist your arm when the right moment comes. But if you manage to improvise some guts, old man, I’ll certainly hear about it.”
She turned and walked away.
“Delegate may enter. Or Not,” said the security men. “Delegate may enter. Or not. Invite expression of intention by progression or retrogression. Request expression of intention. Demand expression of intention. Command expression of intention!”
“Think hard!” said the security men. “In default of expression of intention, delegate demoted to condition of obstruction. Think hard! In def of exp of int del dem to con of ob think, conofobthink, conofobthink.”
And although it made him shudder, he stepped through the narrow space between them because he could think of nowhere else to go.